And one Saturday evening
at the house, while dining with Roger and Deborah, he told of an offer he
had had from a wealthy banker's widow to build a maternity hospital. He
talked hungrily of all it could do in co-operation with the school. He said
nothing of the obvious fact that it would require his whole time, but Roger
thought of that at once, and by the expression on Deborah's face he saw she
was thinking, too.
He felt they wanted to be alone, so presently he left them. From his study
he could hear their voices growing steadily more intense. Was it all about
work? He could not tell. "They've got working and living so mixed up, a man
can't possibly tell 'em apart."
Then his daughter was called to the telephone, and Allan came in to bid
Roger good-night. And his eyes showed an impatience he did not seem to care
to hide.
"Well?" inquired Roger. "Did you get Deborah's consent?"
"To what?" asked Allan sharply.
"To your acceptance," Roger answered, "of the widow's mite." Baird grinned.
"She couldn't help herself," he said.
"But she didn't seem to like it, eh--"
"No," said Baird, "she didn't." Roger had a dark suspicion.
"By the way," he asked in a casual tone, "what's this philanthropic widow
like?"
"She's sixty-nine," Baird answered.
"Oh," said Roger. He smoked for a time, and sagely added, "My daughter's a
queer woman, Baird--she's modern, very modern. But she's still a woman, you
understand--and so she's jealous--of her job.
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